


So now he’s gone and I buried him, and that’s all there is to it

by Abreu



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hamilton References, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Inner Dialogue, Inspired by Poetry, Minor Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Minor Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Not Beta Read, Pablo Neruda's Poetry, Poetry, Poor Aaron Burr, Sad Ending, We Die Like Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29347452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abreu/pseuds/Abreu
Summary: He wrote me a fabulous death. Slow, cold. With red details, with music, with animals, with trees. With poetry.Alexander does not die in a bed with Eliza by his side, instead, he dies laying on a cold tree trunk with the man who shot him looking down at him.He hated it.
Relationships: Aaron Burr & Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Philip Hamilton (1782-1801), Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	So now he’s gone and I buried him, and that’s all there is to it

He managed to crawl his way to the nearest tree. Nathaniel tried to help him, placed him in the boat to get medical help as fast as he could; he rejected it. What good would it be? It didn’t save his son’s life before, and God would surely not even try to save his.

He felt the blood ooze out of his flesh and wet his clothes as he placed his back behind the tree trunk. His breath was becoming more ragged with every passing minute and he was more than uncomfortable. He laid there, in the cold ground, dying as the sun began to set on the Hudson.

He chuckled bitterly. _The former Treasury Secretary dies on a stupid tree trunk besides the_ _Hudson_. Did he really waste everything for such death? To die a miserable and unworthy death, with only the man who shot him as his comfort.

Speaking of the man who shot him, Aaron Burr looked like it was _him_ who got shot. True to his stupid motto of _talk less_ , he was completely speechless. Alexander could see some form of shaking from his body. It was rather chilly in Weehawken but he didn’t know if it was the fact he was dying that made it cold. Or had it always been that cold?

He placed his right hand on his wound, as if that would slow down his death. Ironic that he thought he was ready for his death; all he wanted now was to go back to his bed, to sleep but wake. He was scared.

Alexander Hamilton was scared.

He was dying and no one was there to hold his hand, to tell him he would be alright, that his family would be alright. He blamed it on himself.

Nathaniel was far gone when Burr decided to approach him, even when his second was looking quite worrisome. He was walking too slow for Alexander’s taste. His vision was blurring, his breath slowing and his energy draining yet Aaron Burr walked as if Alexander was just catching his breath.

“I—I just realized,” the man whispered. “I shot you.”

Well, no shit there, Sherlock.

Alexander chuckled. “Is that so?”

He didn’t know how he looked like, he liked to think he looked stoic, brave and courageous but he was probably looking like a dying man, face paling with each passing second, struggling to breathe and in extreme pain. He came to the world in pain, he was going to die in pain.

All he did in his life, was causing pain.

The fear turned into bitter anger; Alexander Hamilton was angry. Angry at the fact he was dying with his back behind a stupid tree trunk, with only his murderer as his last face to see. Angry that the last pictures his brain would register, were Aaron Burr’s anguish.

He wondered if Philip was angry, angry at the fact his father had gambled his life and lost, or that he was cheated. Perhaps His Excellency was hoping to recover from that illness, maybe he died thinking he would wake up.

Both of them died with people that loved them by their side.

Laurens, however, did not.

Alexander ignored Burr’s stuttering to find words, he decided to let what was left of him to wonder. Did John fear for the unknown? Or was he at peace? Did he want someone by his side? No one was with him when he died. He didn’t even know they had won the war.

He died thinking they had lost.

Alexander coughed and the cough ended up making him wet his mouth with blood. Metallic taste. Not the one he would’ve chosen to die with.

The Hudson seemed peaceful, it was peaceful. The sun was just coming up, the water reflecting the orange of it, making clear it was a new day. It was a new day. The streets would soon come to life, people would go to work, they would come back to their homes, to their wives, their children.

Alexander would come to none of those. This new day was beautiful and he would not even see it go down. He suddenly remembered the appointment he had with a client upstate, he smiled. He was so fucking sure this thing would end up harmless, he had even made plans for today. He had even decided where and what to have for lunch.

Not even he planned for his life to end. And that brought him back to his initial response to all of this. Exhaustion. He couldn’t die faster, could he?

Instead of dying with Eliza by his side, on his bed, in his house with the people he cared praying for him, he was dying on a fucking tree trunk, feet away from the place he was shot and with only Aaron Burr to look down on him.

He hated it.

“This wasn’t worth it,” he heard him mutter. “This won’t change anything...”

That much was true, and Alexander hated his death even more. It was meaningless. All his life he had fought for his life to have some meaning, he destroyed his personal life to have meaning and now, this fucking lawyer with no actual beliefs, destroyed it with one shot.

His death would not be wept by the public, he would not be remembered as someone good. Instead, he would be remembered as the former government official to get shot in a duel.

What a waste of legacy.

He glared at the still in shock man. Burr seemed even more traumatized by the whole thing, and Alexander felt pity for the man. He had done everything right, yet they both knew that this was their last chance and they fucked it up. Hamilton would lose his life, Burr too, just in a different way.

Life was truly unfair.

He shook his head and winced in pain. “Sit down, Burr.” He motioned to his right.

He complied and Alexander was glad, he didn’t think he had the time nor the patience to bicker with Burr one last time. He sat down with delicacy, afraid that perhaps moving the wrong rock would speed his untimely death.

He looked at the Hudson with more urgency now.

They stayed in silence for a few seconds. They were the only ones left. There would be nothing after this.

“I don’t want to die,” he choked as he looked at the horizon and realized he was crying.

Burr said nothing and that enraged him even more. That stupid foolish man had wasted his words on nonsense muttering and could not even provide the simply act of comfort to someone dying.

But his body was too tired to stay angry at him.

He focused on the horizon and tried to ignore the wheezing that was probably coming out of him. He looked hard, he wanted an answer. Someone to answer him.

Was his life worth it?

His eyes, pitying him as well, made Washington appear in front of him. He knew he wasn’t there for his appearance. He wasn’t the old, worn out man that had died a few years back. He was the general Alexander remembered, he looked stoic, firm posture and youthful in his own way. His eyes were softened when he looked at him. Alexander could swear he was about to call him son, and he would’ve been the happiest if he did. But he didn’t speak, he just stared at him. Waiting.

Everyone waited. But not him, never him.

“Alexander?”

Burr—right, he was still there. He made a low sound to inform the Vice President that he was still very much alive. For how long? That he knew not long.

“I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t,” he started stuttering again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I thought you were going to...”

His words were fading and Alexander wasn’t going to waste any effort on trying to make sense of them. They were useless.

He blinked and his son stood next to the general. He was not stained of blood, he didn’t look in pain or scared like the last time Alexander had seen him. He was his nine years old self again, with that big smile on his face, the one he loved so much. He looked as impatient as Alexander was. But he looked content.

 _I know, I know_.

His gaze adverted quick to the sun and realized his time was coming to an end. He was running out of time, and the panic came back. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. Even if he so badly wanted to join his son again. It was in his nature as a human to fight death but he had been fighting death since he was a kid. Was he alive enough to fight one more time?

“...I should get a medic. It’s not too late, maybe if we get you on a boat right now...maybe you can...”

If Burr wanted to leave, then Alexander would not stop him. Go ahead, leave. He waited a few seconds and he did not feel the earth move under him, so it meant he was still there. A last honorable act, from someone as low as Burr. He wasn’t going to let a man die alone.

He decided to shut up instead.

Would Laurens be there? If he looked hard enough, even harder, perhaps Laurens would greet him. God knew how badly he longed to see him again. But no matter how hard he looked, he didn’t see him beside his son or the general. Alexander felt cheated. If his death wasn’t going to bring Laurens to him, then he felt cheated.

Anger filled his heart again.

“This was a mistake,” he whispered. Burr had to lean forward to hear his words. “All of this.”

He had to stay alive. He had to stay alive. If Laurens wasn’t there to greet him, then he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t leave his children, his house, his job, his family, his wife—

“Eliza.” He gasped.

He saw her and his heart slowed down in an abrupt second. He frowned. Why was she here? Was she an illusion? She looked exactly as she looked earlier in the morning. With that delicacy, that tenderness that never left her even after the affair and the lost of her child. She was in her night gown, looking as close as an angel, or so Alexander saw. He could almost feel her warmth, her welcoming.

He had to stay alive for her.

He could not die such meaningless death.

She stated at him, looking fondly at him with no trace of bitterness, with no trace of disdain or disappointment. She looked at him with the same kind of love she had for him the night they met. With eyes that could calm even the angriest hurricanes.

He wanted to be with her.

“Alexander.”

He wanted to be with her.

“Alexander.”

She held her hand out to him and he concentrated all the strength he had left to touch her. He couldn’t even move his arm. His soaking in blood arm. But she did not frown, she took a step forward, an another, and another.

“Alexander.”

He tried again. He focused and started coughing thanks to the effort but couldn’t reach her. Even when she was so close, he couldn’t reach her. He wanted to cry, and he was probably crying. He did not want to die without holding her one last time.

But he couldn’t—he _tried_ —he was trying, maybe if he just moved a bit forward, he had to.

He had to.

 _He had to_.

She was so close—

Someone took his hand.

“It’s okay, you can let go now.”

He looked at his side and Laurens was holding his hand. The Laurens he remembered was right there, looking just like the last time he saw him. He had that spark in his eyes, that mischief but generous kindness that he missed. His eyes shone brightly and he smiled a big smile, he held his hand tightly and Alexander had to make a decision.

Laurens was right besides him, touching him and asking him to join him. And all he wanted was to join him. He wanted to rest, even if his death was meaningless. With John’s touch, it had been brought meaning. How many nights had he laid awake asking John to come back? And now he was there, _right there_. He was holding his hand and he could touch him. He _was_ touching him.

He was tired, and Eliza had always wanted him to go to sleep.

She was still holding out her hand but this time, Alexander made no effort to try to reach it. Instead he smiled; she would find him one day, she had her whole life to live. She would make his way to him in time. She was his legacy. She would carry the best of him with her. He trusted and loved her enough to let go. She was the one.

“My love,” he croaked. “Take your time, I’ll see you on the other side.”

She said nothing as she lowered her hand and walked away.

Alexander smiled as he raised his hand effortlessly to join Laurens.

* * *

Alexander Hamilton’s chest at one point stopped going up. Aaron Burr looked a few more seconds to make sure it wasn’t going up. Alexander seemed in enough pain when Burr realized he was waiting for someone. He realized his words would mean nothing to a dying man. Even in the face of death, that man gave a fight. He had fought death and granted, he had lost but very few people would’ve lasted as long as he did.

He had shot his friend, he had _murdered_ his friend.

Jefferson would act immediately, he would take him to court, denounce him as a murderer even if he didn’t like Alexander Hamilton at all. And that, Burr felt was unfair.

He never hated Hamilton, not even when they fell out of friendship. He admired that man in some aspects, his tenacity, stubbornness, desire and ambition to become more than what he was. What he should’ve been. Burr so badly wanted to reproduced that but fell short by a lot. He concluded immigrants were the ones with those qualities that Americans so badly searched for.

If only Hamilton had apologized, this wouldn’t happened. If only Burr hadn’t known Alexander too well, he wouldn’t have shot him.

He didn’t hate Alexander Hamilton, he never did. He was angry at him for taking what he wanted—angry that he stole every chance for him to prove himself but he never hated him. He could never hate a man such as Alexander Hamilton.

What would his wife—now widow say?

Would it be considered poetic that the last thing Alexander Hamilton ever did to Aaron Burr was fuck up his career? Accidentally, of course. After all those papers he had published in life to destroy his political career, dying was the one thing he had to do.

He looked at the man who only a few hours ago had been so full of life. His eyes were glassy, filled with unshed tears, now that he was motionless, you could see the toll the death of his son had done to him. His gray hair disheveled and his beard tainted by red. Yet, a smile was formed in his lips and his eyes held fondness in them.

Surprisingly, if Burr didn’t know better, it would seem Alexander Hamilton had died happily and in peace.

He looked at the horizon for the first time since he shot him, the sun was almost up. A new day began. A new day for the living—and Aaron Burr was among those.

He gave one last check to Alexander’s chest, to be sure he it didn’t go up, then he checked his pulse with his left hand. After this, Burr would have to face the consequences of the new day.

When he was certain Alexander Hamilton was dead, he untwined his hands from his.

**Author's Note:**

> Yours truly really wrote this at like 1 AM lmao. 
> 
> I hope you guys like it. It’s sad, indeed but it’s also gibberish I wrote at 1 AM on a school night—good thing there’s online school.
> 
> Comment if ya liked it my guys


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